While the cake layers were cooling, the rest of the week still had dinners in it. I kept a little notebook open on the counter and wrote down what I made each night because I didn’t want to forget which plates I liked.
Tuesday was orecchiette with crumbled Italian sausage and broccoli. The little pasta cups do this thing where they scoop up the bits of sausage like they were designed for it, which I guess they were. Lots of parmesan. A twist of pepper.
Wednesday I made a pie because I had extra cream in the fridge from the cake plan and needed to use it. Cookies-and-cream, an embarrassment of crumb on top. I served slices to my husband standing at the counter and he ate two without sitting down.
Thursday was butter chicken - a slow-cooked kind, the sauce building for an hour, the color of a marigold by the end. Basmati rice, a lot of torn cilantro, warm naan folded into the bowl. One of those dinners I keep meaning to cook more often and don’t.
Friday I was tired and wanted a bowl of something I could eat in front of a movie. Beef lo mein, sliced onions caramelized at the edges, carrot matchsticks. That kind of dinner doesn’t need a plate, really. It needs a spoon and a fork and somewhere soft to sit.
The cake was assembled Saturday. That’s its own story.
